Side by Side in Orbit
by Penguin
Summary: SLASH H/D AU . Sequel to Dragonweed - journeys end in lovers meeting.
1. Home Truths

Disclaimer: No matter how much I wish I owned these characters, they still belong to J. K. Rowling. Damn.

Warning: This is male slash. If you don't approve, please disapparate out of the grounds. 

A/N: This is a sequel to Dragonweed, set a few years later. Draco has left Harry, and this fic is mainly Draco's, and eventually Harry's, thoughts about love – and its opposites, about the whys and hows, about the truth and lies in their relationship. So, will they get back together…?

(This story was removed due to FF.net disallowing NC-17 rated stories. It has been edited and is now rated R. No new chapters added. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story earlier; I was really sorry to lose your reviews.) 

Title: SIDE BY SIDE IN ORBIT

"…what if there were two,  
side by side in orbit…"

R.E.M., "Nightswimming"

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CHAPTER 1 – Home Truths

The rain is pouring down, making the world outside melt and slide down the window panes in streams of dissolved lights and bleeding colours, gushing wetly onto the soaked, dark street where it is swallowed. My own reflection in the glass is half transparent, as if I'm about to dissolve, too. I try to look my mirror self in the eyes but they are just dark smudges, streaked with red lights from shop signs and blurred with rain. My world is made up of liquids at the moment, inside and out. I've been in this place for the best part of the evening, a quite nice muggle place, sitting at a table by the window trying to avoid meeting the eyes of women at the bar. I started out drinking wine but it didn't get me drunk quickly enough, so I moved on to brandy. I don't know why I bother to try to get drunk in some sort of style. I could have just ordered the cheapest thing there was, but oh no, not Draco Malfoy. When he gets drunk he does it with a flourish, on Chablis and the finest brandy available. Sometimes I'm not sure whether things like this are genuine or a pose.

So many uncertainties in my life these days. Things I have taken for granted have started to reel under me. And I'd like to see some of them go altogether. I look at my mirror face again. For a moment I imagine all my failings are written on me for all to see. Misconceptions I want to dispose of for good. Facts I can't change, which means I will have to accept them. Facts I _can_ change, which means I will have to take action. Questions I want to have answers to and questions I don't want to have to ask. Banalities I don't want to acknowledge.

Misconceptions: Harry is an innocent person. I am cold.  
Indisputable fact: I'm here, alone, without him. And I'm very drunk.  
Questions, so simple, so hard to ask and so hard to answer: Do I love him? Does he love me? Will I ever go back to him?  
Banality: I do love him.  
Definition of banalities: Banalities are truths that have been repeated so often they have become a commonplace; washed-out and uninteresting.

Having to admit that they influence your life makes you ashamed. Having to admit they are _central_ to your life is disaster. We all want to be special, original, not part of the grey masses. But here I am now, trapped in a situation that is not original in the least. 

I'm here because I've run off. I'm here because I've left him.

I've run from the greatest misconception of them all, one so enormous I couldn't put it on my list: That we were happy. It seems that this misconception was entirely mine. I thought our relationship was built on genuine love, which might not be the most solid of foundations if you think about it, but at least an honest one. But when something much less beautiful than love showed its face, the ugly stepsister of love, I ran. From her. And from Harry. 

I never ran from the Death Eaters; I stayed with them and looked them unflinchingly in the eyes. I didn't run from the Dark Lord on the battlefield; I stayed to fight him. _We_ fought him; I felt Harry's power in me. And our combined power became something more than the sum of its parts; the love between us created something so blindingly powerful that darkness did not have the weapons to destroy it. It couldn't have happened if there hadn't been genuine love, so I know for a certainty that love was there – then. But where did it go? What happened to it? Did it destroy itself out there in the mud and just took a while over dying, or did the darkness really have the weapons to destroy it after all; weapons so subtle and deceptive that we never suspected?

I faced death, but I run from this. 

Of course I was the one who ran. Harry would never do something like that. Noble Harry Potter, he doesn't just run off. So noble he is willing to share his life with someone for the sake of gratitude alone. So many times when we have argued, when I've thrown insults at him that come out like ridiculous echoes from our verbal duels in the school corridors, and when he has consistently refused to argue on my level, I've thought _oh, come on, Harry, be an arse just once so I can hate you._ Well, I had my wish granted. Only to find I can't hate him even then.

I leave the restaurant, having some trouble getting to the door, bumping into tables and muttering slurred apologies. I can't stand the look in people's eyes; half-amused, half-disgusted pity. The rain is still pouring down and splashing up around my feet. I feel really sick now. Better to get it all out, alcohol, sadness, anger, the lot.

I actually have to stop to be sick in the gutter. That's a first. Never been so drunk I had to throw up before. It's a first I could have lived without. Malfoys don't puke in public. I straighten up and lean against the wall, a vile taste in my mouth, rain soaking me and sobering me, enough for me to haul myself back to Zabini's flat that he's been nice enough to let me use. My only bit of luck; that he'll be away for another couple of weeks.

I brush my teeth unsteadily in front of the bathroom mirror. I look awful, hair rat-tailed from the rain, eyes slow and glazed with drink. _Just look at you. He won't want you back even if you beg him._ Ha. I didn't even know I wanted to go back. Some things really do become clearer when alcohol blurs everything else. This home truth is sharp and clean like the minty toothpaste. _What a little rat you are, Draco. Homesick now? Is that what it is? Or is it something even more humiliating?_

I have to get some sleep.

* * *

I cure my hangover the next morning with a handy little spell. I don't need Madam Pomfrey's help any more. I stay in bed for a while, my eyes going round the room, looking at Zabini's surprisingly bland and random collection of art. If you are to buy art your heart should be in it. Zabini's heart obviously hasn't been, so I don't know why he's bothered at all. He could just as well have put printed muggle art posters on his walls. I doubt if he would even know the difference.

Harry, I miss you. If you had been here we would have laughed, tried to figure out what kind of posters Zabini would buy, refurbished the entire room for him. You'd have laughed the way you always do on weekend mornings, a little sleepily even hours after you wake up, a little huskily. I _feel_ that laugh like a shiver. I've never told you how insanely sexy I think it is, afraid it would lose that quality if you knew.

I start thinking about my list from yesterday again. Questions and misconceptions. And that less than dignified truth that hit me when I brushed my teeth.

Truths are difficult. They usually require action or reaction. I don't know what to do about this one yet. Truths are also devious; they are so volatile. If you say you love me, it's only valid _now_, this very moment. What's true now can be a lie tonight, tomorrow, next year.

Except you've never said you loved me. Because you didn't want to lie to me? 

Lies. Truths. But if there is no truth, how can there be misconceptions? 

I still think this is a misconception: that Harry is innocent.

He may appear to be, and the fact that he sometimes gets painfully confused and has a tendency to blush makes people think he is, but he's the least innocent person I have ever met. Whatever innocence he had, he lost that day in our fourth year. He has deeper knowledge of the nature of evil than anyone I know, myself included. The Death Eaters may have shown me some of the more spectacular sides of evil; ceremonies and rituals that would look good in a horrible sort of way on the muggle movie screen. But Harry's knowledge runs deeper than mine. His runs into every fibre of him, while mine stays a palpable, defined unit. The amazing thing about him is that he has not lost his faith. He has seen evil, felt it, understood it, but he still believes in truth and right and goodness and sanity. He believes in these things in himself and in other people, and this is his strength, the force in him I can't help but admire. My own darkness is raw and rugged and slices into my core. But Harry encases his darkness in a smooth hard shell to keep it from hurting him; like a dark pearl inside an oyster. If you interpret that as innocence you're unbelievably imperceptive.

As for sexual innocence, it's been a long time since he had that, either. I've seen to that personally.

Which takes me to the next misconception: People perceive me as cold. Maybe they just choose their words unwisely; maybe they really do misunderstand. Reserve should not be mistaken for coldness. Few people would guess at my intensity of feeling, but look into my eyes and you will see the anger, the hatred, the love I'm capable of. I don't flaunt emotions and I rarely act on impulse, and a self-contained person always runs the risk of being seen as cold. I think my colouring deceives people, too. The pale, blond, silver-shot colours make them associate me with cold things; snow or chilled cream. But my flesh is as warm as yours. Touch me and I'll burn your fingers.

Even Harry, who knows me better than anyone, makes that connection between me and ice. On my twenty-first birthday he threw a surprise party for me. I really hate surprise parties, but he had put so much effort into it that I was moved. Our flat looked amazing. An enchanted Hogwarts style ceiling showing a velvety dark, starry sky; minimalist décor of silver and ice – even the cocktail glasses were made out of ice; all with Freezing spells on them to protect them from the heat of candle flames and hands. I couldn't bring myself to tell him that he had misunderstood. After all, he knows me so well that his perception of me is a truth in its own right.

Truths. Again. We have reached the Difficult Questions part of my list. If I stop now it will only prove I'm a coward, so I'll have to go on.

Do I love him?

Honesty tastes like cold poison but I swallow it. I do love him, even when I hate him. And most of all I love him in the morning. My pillow-sharer, my full-body hugger, my breakfast companion. Buttery, unhealthy, wonderful three-hour Sunday breakfasts in bed where we lazily move from sweet to salty, from honey to flesh, from smooth to slick.

He makes me become more than myself. He pushes me beyond myself and makes me forget my own limitations.

He showed me that love doesn't have to be a battleground; it can be something that energizes you instead of draining you. He showed me that weakness can be strength, strength weakness. He showed me the protective side of me. I lie awake at night chasing shadows away to stop them from entering his dreams. I need him to need me. He showed me that love doesn't have two sides; it has a thousand: The peacefulness of mutual trust. The breathless exploration of the intricate landscape that is another human being. My reflection in his eye. The hand that gently cups a shoulder blade. The way he makes me believe I can walk on water. The way we crash onto each other's shores like waves. 

Does he love me?

Two weeks ago I thought I knew the answer to that question. Now I can only say that he _did_ love me. 

One night I woke up in the small hours, surfacing into the dark warmth of the room from depths of soft, black sleep. He lay against my back, our bodies a perfect fit, his arm resting protectively over my ribs and across my chest. I could hear from his breathing that he was awake. I didn't let him know I was. His palm was centered over my heart as if he wanted to hold it. And he did, without knowing; the way he has always held my heart. I heard him say my name three times in a whisper, felt it against the back of my neck. I didn't answer; I didn't smile. I knew I wasn't meant to hear it.

Will I ever go back to him?

I'm beginning to think that I must. I just don't know how to do it.


	2. The L Word

Disclaimer: No matter how much I wish I owned these characters, they still belong to J. K. Rowling. Damn.

Warning: This is male slash. If you don't approve, please disapparate out of the grounds. 

Title: SIDE BY SIDE IN ORBIT

"…what if there were two,  
side by side in orbit…"

R.E.M., "Nightswimming"

---------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER 2 – The L Word

Even before I wake up I know that the bed is empty next to me. I don't sleep well after Draco left, being so used to having him beside me, or around me, most nights. Sometimes after we had argued we went to bed lying as far apart as we could, careful not to touch each other even with an elbow or a toe. But during the night we always gravitated towards the centre of the bed, our bodies wiser than our minds, and we woke up in the morning as entangled as ever, arms and legs entwined, warm and relaxed and slightly damp with sweat, our own, each other's. What I think about most, now, are all the infinitely intimate moments when we were not sure who was who and what belonged to whom. My hands on him or his on me, my tongue in his mouth or his in mine, his saliva or mine on my lips, our sweat mingling on our bodies, a whispered word from one of us to the other, borders transcended. Now that he's gone it's like phantom pains; like having limbs missing that I never even knew were there.

He's been gone three weeks. Tragedy boy. Melodrama boy. He's very good at making nothing into something, both good and bad. If he had only let me get a word in edgewise it needn't have come to this. But he didn't even let me finish my sentence.

I don't know where he's gone to and I haven't tried to find him. There haven't been any owls about him missing work so I guess he goes there as usual. But I won't owl him or go to see him. He was the one who left and he's the one who has to come back. I'll just stay here, waiting, like a harbour waiting for an erratic ship to be guided there by the beacons along the coast. Because he has to come back. I refuse to acknowledge any other possibilities.

He's probably drinking hard. He usually gets drunk when he's upset about something; it's his way of dealing with it, a form of exorcism. It doesn't work for me. I sometimes drink when I'm upset, too, but never the way he does, never that much. I only want the alcohol to loosen me up a bit, tear down mental walls and allow an uninhibited flow of thought. I don't want to drown in it. He wants to be washed away.

Everything here reminds me so painfully of him. In the shower I close my eyes and listen to the water drumming on top of my head. I can't even stand the sight of the sea coloured mosaic tiles on the walls; it only makes me remember the back of my shoulders being pressed against them so hard that the little squares leave an imprint on my skin, while Draco is on his knees in front of me, my hands in his wet hair and the sound of my moans echoing flatly between the walls.

Another Sunday morning without a lazy breakfast-for-two in bed. Sunshine is flowing in through the windows but the kitchen feels bleak, as if Draco's presence is the only thing that will make the place come alive. I make toast the muggle way, feeling too angry and too drained to trust myself to use magic. I would probably burn down the whole house. When I have bitten into the first piece the doorbell rings.

Hermione looks very pretty in a white sleeveless dress. Her tanned face is flushed pink from the walk, her clear brown eyes glittering as she kisses me on the cheek. I ask if she wants breakfast and she sits down at the kitchen table while I cook, the sunshine brighter now that she is here. The sharp pleasant smells of frying bacon and freshly ground coffee makes the kitchen wake up. I open the balcony door to let in sweet, cool air and late morning sounds. As I set the plates on the table Hermione gives me one of her firm no-nonsense looks and says brusquely:

"What do you two think you're doing?"

"What?"

I wince and the cutlery drops from my hand and clatters loudly onto her plate.

"You and Draco. I just can't watch you doing this to each other. I met Draco yesterday but I didn't get much sense out of him. But I could tell he was really upset. What have you done to him?"

"Why do you always take Draco's opinion as unquestionable truth?" Saying his name makes me shiver. "Why do you assume _I've_ done something to _him_? Would you mind hearing _my_ side of the story, just for a change?"

"No, I wouldn't mind at all," she says drily. "In fact that's why I'm here."

She can be very annoying.

"I haven't done a bloody thing to him. _Nothing._ He just ran out on me. He wouldn't listen. When does Draco ever listen?" I haven't realized just how angry I am until now. "Exactly. He doesn't. He never fucking listens. We were talking, and he – I only said to him – I just tried to tell him – " I break off, winded suddenly, not at all sure now of the wisdom of what I tried to tell him.

"Tell him what?"

I stare at her helplessly.

"Um… that I love him."

I blush at hearing myself say it. Hermione lifts an eyebrow and looks at me with a scepticism that bores holes into my head. She bursts out laughing, a rough, barking laugh that makes me shudder.

"Yeah, I'm sure that's what you did! How stupid of me not to guess! Harry told Draco he loved him, damn, _that_ must be why Draco looks like a ghost and drinks himself stupid. Oh, come on, Harry. You can do better than this."

"I guess it… came out wrong."

"God, Harry! For someone so bright you're really pretty dense, you know. How about telling me what happened."

"Not until you tell me what Draco said yesterday. What was he like? Is he all right?"

"I won't tell you what he said. I don't think he would want me to. But he was quite drunk and determined to make that condition worse, and he looked like death. You know the way his eyes take on this impenetrable slate colour sometimes. Like that." She gives me a searching look. "You should have just _said_ you loved him. In so many words. You two make me crazy. I meet Draco in the street looking like death and then I find you here looking… well, not much better, and all the time it's so obvious you're still in love and dying to get back with each other. Just find him, Harry, and tell him properly this time."

Easy for Hermione to say. She's not the one who will have to face Draco's anger. But she wants to know what really happened. Well, the thing is – nothing did. Absolutely nothing. That's why I'm so blazing mad at him, melodrama boy. It was just something I said to him that he misunderstood – but we've had so many misunderstandings before and some pretty ugly arguments, too, and we've always managed to get through those without this sort of drama. And that is what scares the hell out of me: I'm afraid he really wanted to leave me anyway, that he has been thinking of leaving for some time and just caught this opportunity like a Snitch, a golden excuse for leaving me and making it my fault. 

I tell Hermione this over steaming cups of coffee this glorious Sunday morning in July that I should have spent in bed with Draco, slowly moving my mouth over his creamy skin.

------------

__

"So what was it you wanted to say?" he asked.

"What?" I murmured, sleepy lips against his throat.

"Before you jumped on me and tried to eat me." His long fingers were playing lazily with my hair and I could hear his smile. "You said there was something you wanted to say to me."

"Oh. That. Yes."

I propped myself up on my elbow and looked down at his beautiful face, trying to gather my thoughts together. There was still a fine sheen of sweat on his skin from our love-making. 

"Something I've never said to you before. Because it's kind of hard to say." I slowly traced a finger up from his knee along his thigh, over his hipbone and stomach, grazed his nipple, continued upwards. When my fingertip reached his lips I stopped and let it rest there. His eyes were steady on my face and he didn't move. "Well… I've thanked you for saving my life that time. You know. With Voldemort. Not that I really can thank you, ever. You nearly died for me and there's no way for me to thank you properly for that. And that's exactly the point here." I hesitated, slightly embarrassed, running my finger slowly along his lip and looking into his lovely, cloudy eyes. "What I haven't thanked you for is… never trying to cash in my debt."

His eyes darkened visibly and their expression changed. His lips parted and he drew a breath to say something, but I stopped him.

"So I say it now, Draco. Thank you. Don't think I don't know I'm indebted to you because I really, truly do. I think about that debt every day. And every day I'm grateful to you for never mentioning it."

I felt his body tense while I was talking, but I wasn't quick enough. He shot out of bed and whipped around, his fist an inch from my face. His eyes were flashing silver, pouring hatred, and his usually so pale skin was flushed and blotched with anger and something else I couldn't quite grasp. Draco is never ugly but this was as close to it as I had ever seen.

He alternately hissed and shouted at me, tiny drops of saliva spraying my face. He called me a piece of shit, a pompous asshole, a conceited bastard. He told me to stop pretending to be so fucking noble because underneath the surface I was just scum.

"Draco…"

Shocked and confused by his venom, I was halfway out of bed, gripping his wrists, but he threw me off with a grimace as if I revolted him. 

"Draco! Will you fucking **listen** to me!? "

But he didn't want to listen; he was pulling on his clothes and muttering under his breath like a madman. The angry flush was gone from his face, he was white as a ghost now. Having his fist under my nose didn't scare me, but this did.

"Will you just let me finish! Please listen to me, Draco! No – don't go! You can't leave like this!"

But I heard him grab a few things from the bathroom, from the hall, and then the door slammed behind him.

----------------- 

"And that was it, Hermione. I swear that was all."

Her eyes are shut tight and I stare at her in some kind of desperation. Sensible Hermione; I don't doubt for a second that she has it all figured out, that she sees clearly what I have failed to see. Sometimes I think she understands Draco far better than I do. I'm too close to him, so focused on details I miss the whole.

"God, Harry," she moans softly. "I'm sorry, but how could you have been so bloody stupid. No wonder Draco looked like death. Don't you see what it was you said to him? What it was he thought you said?"

She opens her eyes, reaches across the table and grips my hand, crushes it until I protest. My thoughts are whirling uncontrollably and I honestly _don't_ understand. Hermione says, very clearly as if she is explaining to a slow child:

"He heard you say that you've stayed with him out of gratitude; that you are indebted to him and this has chained you to him. He heard you say that you stay with him simply to try to pay off your debt. _You_ thought you were telling him you loved him and _he_ thought you were telling him the exact opposite."

As simple as that. How ridiculous can love get. You'd think that wizards should be clever enough to keep themselves out of stupid, completely unnecessary tangles like this, but we're no better than muggles in this respect. If anything, we're worse, because we think magic will solve our problems, whereas muggles know they will have to work on it. 

* * *

I lie awake that night trying to push the thought of Draco away, but it keeps returning, irritatingly persistent, like a too-friendly, plunging dog you try to shove off your bed.

Just find him and tell him you love him. I didn't tell Hermione we have _never_ said "I love you". Except the one time at Hogwarts, when Draco stood in the doorway with his back to me, said he loved me and then rushed off. We've said it in a million other ways, showed it in every way we can think of, but never once used those words. And the longer you refrain from saying it, the harder it is to say. The L word has been hanging over our heads like the sword of Damocles.

A little more than a week from now I'll be twenty-one. We had planned a big party for the weekend. I'm going ahead with the plans and I can't help wondering if Draco will turn up.

I wish he would deliver himself to my door like a birthday gift, the best one I've ever had. And that he will let me spend the entire night unwrapping him and savouring the contents.


	3. Friends and Lovers

Disclaimer: No matter how much I wish I owned these characters, they still belong to J. K. Rowling. Damn.

Warning: This is male slash. If you don't approve, please disapparate. 

Title: SIDE BY SIDE IN ORBIT

"…what if there were two,  
side by side in orbit…"  
R.E.M., "Nightswimming"

---------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER 3 – Friends and Lovers

"…item: two lips, indifferent red; item: two grey eyes,…  
…

I see what you are, you are too proud.  
But if you were the devil, you are fair."

  
W. Shakespeare, "Twelfth Night", I,V

I've got one of Draco's old t-shirts on. This is just one of all the stupid, sentimental things I seem to be indulging in since he left; I sometimes wear a piece of clothing that belongs to him. It's as close to him as I can get, letting my skin touch something that has touched his. It doesn't matter that the clothes have been washed in between; the t-shirt I'm wearing has hugged him just like it's hugging me now. It's a rather faded, soft shade of blue which is not really my colour, but it's gorgeous on him, giving the grey of his eyes a faint blue hue, like blue sky trying to peek through clouds. Right now the blue fabric is stained dark with sweat – the kitchen is very hot even with the doors open on to the balcony.

The loaves of bread are a perfect golden brown when I take them out of the oven, and they have the right hollow sound to them when I turn them upside down and tap them with a finger. I've been cooking all day and it will take most of the day tomorrow as well. I'm preparing for my birthday party tomorrow evening. I love birthday parties and I love having lots of food on the table, probably legacy of the non-existent birthday celebrations of my childhood. A good thing I also love to cook. Hermione has been here earlier today to help me; it was a bit like Potions class but here at last is a subject where I outshine her. She likes cooking but I have developed a passion for it – and it's muggle cooking, without any magic, unless you regard artistic creativity as a form of magic. I love the sensuality of it, the tactile values, as Draco once said. I love combining flavours and textures and colours, making them contrast and complement each other, making each dish a work of art to be enjoyed by the eye as well as the palate. 

Usually I feel elated when I'm surrounded by the raw materials of a feast, when they are lying there waiting for me to take possession of them, transform them and dress them for the ball. But tonight I feel more anger than elation and I use the cooking to relieve my frustrations. I dip the tomatoes in scalding water and then flay them, I place the onions on the guillotine and chop their heads off, I crush garlic with fresh herbs in the mortar murderously. I think I will have to leave some of the more delicate procedures for tomorrow; in my present mood I'll only demolish everything.

-----------------------------------

Granger came to see me at Zabini's flat last night. I don't know how she found out where I was; I suppose she must have got the information from the Personnel officer at the Ministry somehow. I don't put anything past her when it comes to detective work. Or when it comes to helping her friends. She was obviously going somewhere quite fancy to judge from her elegant hair and dress robes, but she had still taken the time to see me. I was absurdly pleased.

"Glad to see you sober," she said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, well, sorry about last time. But I wasn't… feeling too good."

"You're still not feeling too good, are you?"

There was no point denying it so I just shook my head.

"Harry is being stupid," she said without preamble. "You know what he's like. The ever guilt-ridden golden boy. Makes things very complicated without really meaning to, and then he doesn't know how to get himself out of the tangle."

I looked at her, wanted her to go on, wanted her to talk about Harry so I could at least hear his name.

"Draco. What you two have is exceptional. From the moment you told me about Harry, before you left Hogwarts, I knew that your relationship isn't just an ordinary one. And you proved it to everyone in battle. When you have been through something as sinister as that together and survived, you can't allow yourself to throw your love away for nothing, and believe me, that's what you're doing now. I just can't watch you do this." She looked at me, and then she came up to me and hugged me, gently, warmly, reassuringly. The wonderful simplicity of it – she saw what I needed most that very moment and gave it to me, without question. She held me. It was all I could do not to cry. "In many ways you are the stronger part in this relationship, you know," she said. "I really think you should go home. He needs you."

I hugged her back, first time ever, and marvelled at the slim, firm softness of her body, the comfort of holding her. Her eyes smiled into mine and she left for wherever she was going. _Damn you, Harry. You don't deserve friends like her._

Granger is the reason why I'm here now, on my way home, to our flat, to Harry. I'm not the nervous type but right now I'm so nervous I'm shaking. I want to see the look on his face when he catches sight of me – and then I will know for sure.

When I slide the key into the lock I smell food, a heavenly smell, a delicious if incoherent mix of things cooking, baking, simmering. I check myself. I know from experience that if Harry cooks, it means he's upset. He uses cooking as therapy – and it's real muggle cooking, where he has to touch and shape and struggle with every single ingredient. The more upset he is, the more complex the dishes. Judging from the multitude of fragrances seeping from the kitchen he is more upset than I've ever known him. My feelings are equally mixed; they always are when he cooks. Because usually when he's upset, I 'm the reason for it. But at the same time I'm delighted – a twisted delight, really; I enjoy the paradox of being the cause of upsetting him _and_ being the recipient of the results of his culinary therapy. I take a malicious pleasure in the fact that mental torture can result in such enjoyable creative activity. 

I take a deep breath and walk through the hall, stop in the doorway to the kitchen. I can see straight away that Harry is more than upset; he's genuinely angry. The beautiful green eyes are blazing and the black eyebrows almost collide above his nose. He's crushing something in the mortar as if he's trying to murder it. There are loaves of bread cooling on the counter; a bowl of fresh raspberries, double cream, dark chocolate; the tomato sauce simmering on the range spreading a wonderful sharp, garlicky aroma.

And I suddenly realise the cooking is not only therapeutic this time; it's for his birthday party. Oh Merlin, I've forgotten. His twenty-first. His birthday is not until Tuesday but the party is tomorrow.

He still hasn't seen me. He washes his hands, takes out ingredients for cookie dough, starts chopping the chocolate viciously with the biggest knife he can find. His fingers are gradually covered with sticky, melted chocolate as he works. A vivid picture of our very first, chocolaty kiss in the Hall at Hogwarts ages ago flashes through my brain, of my tongue teasing his lips, his mouth nervous and hot on mine. Perhaps it's that same memory he is trying to chop to bits with the knife. My blood pounds in my ears as I stare at his hands working, strong nimble hands, experts at catching a fluttering Snitch, experts at making my body arch with pleasure. I stare at the tanned curve of his neck disappearing under an old blue t-shirt that I recognize with a jolt as one of my own. Watching him in an unguarded moment like this, when he thinks he is alone, makes me tremble. A vein stands out on his neck and I picture my lips on it; I can feel the throb of his pulse on my tongue already. I'm breathing fast as I lunge from the doorway into the kitchen. He winces when he sees me and the knife falls to the floor. I know the intensity of desire in my eyes makes me look dangerous. His are beyond beautiful, shining with shocked surprise, and this only serves to arouse me even more. The air around us seems to sing on a high, clear note of tension. I catch his hand and start licking the chocolate from his fingers, sliding them into my mouth one by one and sucking them hard, pulling them out deliberately slowly, my tongue swirling his fingertips. His eyes are wide and their depths shift from shock to anger to lust. He wants to hit me and he wants to fuck me, and torn between the two he does nothing. All I hear is his now rapid breathing, and finally an almost inaudible moan. As if this is the signal I've been waiting for, I back him up against the wall, take his face in my hands and eat his mouth like a peach, all sweet wet freshness. He moans again, he gives me his tongue, his hands come up under my t-shirt, fingers still wet from my mouth and cool on my burning skin. I hear my own moans as if they come from a stranger. I've never wanted him this much before and I know he can feel it. We bite at each others lips, he claws the skin on my back and my fingers dig into his jaw bone. He mumbles something under my kiss but I doubt if he even knows what he's saying. 

Suddenly his hands are on my chest, pushing me away from him violently. I stagger backwards to see green fury flash from his eyes just before my head explodes with pain, once, twice. I black out for a fraction of a second, reeling against the counter, and when the room clears again Harry is cradling his fist in his other hand, knuckles red, and he's yelling at me but I've already missed half of what he's saying. I feel blood streaming from my nose and a split lip, dripping on my t-shirt and on the black and white tiles on the floor. It looks beautiful there, blossoming brightly on the hard, shiny surface. My ears are ringing. His mouth is spluttering words I would never have imagined he knew. He rounds off his rant by shoving me towards the door, shoving me out, slamming it shut behind me.

He never thinks when he's angry. He's forgotten I have a key.

But tonight I won't take advantage of having the more structured mind. I just pull a handkerchief out of my jeans pocket and try to stop the flow of blood. I feel dizzy and my nose hurts like hell, but I begin to laugh, irresistibly, in spite of the cut lip. I'm still shaking with silent laughter as I let myself into Zabini's flat again. It's only when I meet my own eyes in the bathroom mirror and see the rigid grimace on my face that I realise I could just as well have cried. My blood swirls pinkly diluted into Zabini's washbasin and down the drain.

--------------------

The living room is warm and filled with talk, music, laughter, the clinking of ice against glass. The double doors are open onto the balcony that runs the whole length of the flat, the thin curtains lifting and billowing softly in the warm breeze that smells sweetly of mown grass. Candle flames are reflected in eyes and champagne glasses. This is the main reason I love birthday parties – having so many of the people you love gathered in the same place. I let my eyes sweep over Sirius, Hermione and Seamus, Ginny with her very attractive muggle boyfriend, the twins, Ron with a dark, pretty girl I haven't seen before… But it also inevitably makes you think of all the people you loved and will never see again. When I see Ron and Ginny I think of Bill and Charlie; when I see Sirius I think of Remus Lupin.

And when I see all my friends here I think of someone who could very well have been here tonight but has chosen not to. 

I have just fetched some more bread from the kitchen when I see him hesitantly enter the living room. I nearly drop the plate I'm holding. I realise that people are still talking around me, laughing and drinking and dancing, but I don't hear the tide of voices any more, I don't see anyone's movements but his. Everything stops. I only hear my own heartbeat and I begin to shake. I'm shocked by his beauty, stunned by him as if I saw him for the first time. The sharp lovely face shows no traces of last night; he must have used a healing charm. He looks tired and his eyes are dark, but he moves with his usual smoothness and relaxed elegance. That poise, that grace, that lithe body I know so well, every little secret. My fingers and my lips remember every inch of his skin, every strand of his silky hair. He is white liquid fire, burning me. He spots me across the room and his eyes flash silver; he shifts the bottle of wine he's holding from one hand to the other, and the way his hand slides suggestively up the neck of the bottle makes me swallow hard, trying to ignore the sharp stab of desire. I feel dizzy and the intoxication is not all from the champagne. His eyes are saying something, asking something, and I try to answer them with mine.

__

Yes. I'm not sure what you're asking, but yes.


	4. Kisses

Disclaimer: No matter how much I wish I owned these characters, they still belong to J. K. Rowling. Damn.

Warning: This is male slash, so if you have objections to that, please disapparate. 

A/N: Thanks to the wonderful **Ivy Blossom** for the inspiration for cooking!Harry.   
Hermione's Shakespeare quotation comes from "Twelfth Night".

SIDE BY SIDE IN ORBIT

"…what if there were two,  
side by side in orbit…"  
R.E.M., "Nightswimming"

------------------

CHAPTER 4 – Kisses

" How does he love me?  
  
With adorations, fertile tears,  
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire."  
W. Shakespeare, "Twelfth Night", I.5

Draco lingers in the doorway like a guest who is not sure of the layout of the flat, but to my relief Hermione is at his side within seconds. She reaches up to kiss him and his eyes soften into hers. She says something to him and her hand is on his arm. If it hadn't been for last night I would have been jealous. If I hadn't still had the sound of his moans in my ears, and if my fingers hadn't remembered the wet silk of his mouth... Now my heart warms at the sight of two of the people I love most in the world smiling at each other with such genuine affection. I notice Ron's scowl. He has grudgingly accepted us being together but he still doesn't like Draco.

I'm grateful to Hermione for taking care of Draco so smoothly and making him feel welcome. I leave him to her for the time being. We have a lot to talk about but it can wait until later. 

A little later, when I dance with Hermione, she says:

"You've read Shakespeare, I suppose? We Muggles tend to do that."

"Some," I say, surprised.

"Well, if _he_ wasn't a wizard, I don't know who is… Anyway, he said a lot of beautiful and true things about love. How about this: 'Journeys end in lovers meeting; every wise man's son doth know'. You are a wise man's son, Harry. Believe him."

God, I love Hermione. She always knows what I want, sometimes before I know it myself, but she also knows what I need, and what I need is usually exactly what she gives me. It's not always pleasant but always effective, and this time want and need coincide. I laugh and hold her closer.

"Thanks, Hermione. I will."

It's midnight when I finally go up to Draco. He has talked to Hermione and Sirius for most of the evening, but also danced with the few girls who have ventured to ask him. He's a beautiful dancer, of course; why shouldn't he be when everything else about him is so graceful. I watched him dance with Parvati, who glanced up at his face now and again with a kind of awed longing, and it made me feel fiercely possessive of him. All that beauty. All that contained fire. It's _mine_. 

Now he is standing by himself, watching other people dance, his half-filled wine glass placed on the low bookshelf beside him. Absent-mindedly he wets the tip of his finger and traces it lightly around the rim of the glass, making it sing on a weirdly thin, clear note. He looks up when I'm at his elbow, and his eyes do strange things to my pulse. He says nothing but his hands speak a language of their own, and I have no difficulty understanding it. The air between us seems to shift and breathe like something alive. I open my mouth but before I've said anything, he says:

"It's hot in here. Let's get some air."

There are people out on the balcony smoking, but we move over to the other end which is empty and dark. We stand there for a while without talking, and the darkness is warm and soft and clings to the skin like velvet. Big white summer stars hang ripe and low like jewel fruit on the branches of the sky. If I hold out my hand they will fall into it.

Draco's pale face is shimmering in front of me. He looks almost luminous in the sparse light; his beauty hurts and I can't look at him. I focus on some point beyond his left ear. 

"Thank you for coming." I'm almost whispering.

"It's your birthday party. I wouldn't have missed it," he says politely. He smiles but I hear something in his voice that makes my stomach contract. 

"About last night. I'm really sorry."

"So am I."

"It was stupid of me, but when you pounced on me like that I overreacted."

"I know. My fault. And I know some good healing charms."

"Draco..."

His name is cool and sweet on my tongue. I must look at him now, however much it hurts. His eyes are so dark, they still have that impenetrable slate colour and I know it's because of me. There is no point in prolonging this.

"Yes."

"When you left… a month ago… What we were talking about. You never let me finish what I was saying."

He tenses immediately, eyes turning even darker, almost black now. All defenses are up. But I know he remembers every word we said; they are etched into his memory as clearly as they are in mine.

"You think I should have let you go on?" His voice is low, soft, menacing, and again I'm the one who has to avert my eyes. "And what else would you have said to me, Harry? What other sanctimonious, patronising little things about gratitude and debt? Or perhaps even pity?"

I suddenly understand what it is I hear in his voice, this edge that disturbs me. Draco is scared. I have hardly ever seen him scared, and it shakes me to the core. He sounds hateful but he is only trying to protect himself, defend himself, like a frightened animal hissing and raising its hackles. And why would he need to protect himself, if not… _Oh God, Draco, what have I done to you? What are you afraid I'm going to say?_

"I said I think about that debt every day. And every day I'm grateful to you for never mentioning it. That's as far as I got before you interrupted me." I lift my hand to his face. He flinches almost invisibly, as if he thinks I'm going to hit him but can't afford to let me know that. But I can't not touch him now. I trace my fingertips lightly down his cheek, the touch so electric I imagine I can hear the sound of it, a hushed whisper like snowflakes settling. A hot seed of pain inside me seems to grow and open dark flowers. He means everything to me. If he could only see that. If I could only tell him. I move a step closer to him, so close I can feel the familiar smell of him, surprisingly spicy and warm. I say softly: "If you had let me go on, I would have said… thank you for being so generous. And I would have told you that every day I love you more."

His eyes widen but they don't leave mine. The slate colour dissolves, they are cloudy silver again, and they begin to shine with a strange radiant light I have never seen before, almost as bright as the summer stars. I can barely breathe. My fingers are resting against his cheekbone and he takes my wrist gently, kisses my palm, the inside of my wrist, lets his lips linger on my beating pulse as if he wants my blood to carry his kiss to my heart. He leans in and kisses my mouth, slowly, beautifully, as if he is afraid I'm going to vanish and he wants his lips to remember me. What I feel for him this moment, whatever gratitude or protectiveness or love, goes beyond words, beyond anything I've ever felt. I stand still and let it fill me. He withdraws to meet my eyes again. And I do it. I open my soul to him, I let him read all my emotions in my eyes. I know he can see everything now. The moment seems to go on forever. Then his eyelids come down like shutters, but not before I have seen the shimmer of tears.

"Draco..."

He shakes his head. "Harry, don't. Please."

"Don't what?" If he doesn't want me, if he turns away now, I will die. That's how it feels.

"Don't make me cry," he whispers, but he is smiling. "Not at your birthday party, not in front of all these people. Give me a minute."

He takes deep breaths, eyes still closed, and I stand there watching the starlit planes of his sharp face, hoping for a way to keep this picture, this stillness, this emotion for ever.

He opens his eyes again. They are still radiant but the tears are gone. 

"Let's go in," he says. "People will start to wonder where you are."

He gestures to me to go in before him, and I feel his hand touch my back very lightly when I do. The touch sends a current through me and makes my fingertips tingle. It's like entering another world, coming in from the dark stillness and the stars out there into the warm, noisy, candle-lit room. I turn to face him.

"Draco."

"Yes?"

"Will you stay?"

He knows I'm not talking about the party. He knows I'm talking about our life. The look he gives me is one of pure beauty.

"Yes, Harry, I'll stay."

* * *

"Thank you for saying it," he says, much later, so late or so early that it's light again and the first cautious rays of sun have found their way through the windows. 

The last guests have just left, and we are alone, finally alone, but finding it difficult to look at each other, a strange shyness invading us both. He has remedied our awkwardness by gently pulling me to him so we don't have to meet each other's eyes just yet. It would be too much. He's holding me and my fingers are entangled in his impossibly soft hair.

"For saying what?"

He swallows hard; he seems to have trouble finding his voice. "What you said... out there… on the balcony. You said…"

"Yes." I'm blushing deeply, my face burning from embarrassment, from desire, from truth as I say it again. "I love you. I love you so much I don't know where to begin."

I bury my face in his neck and he hugs me to him, holds me almost viciously, as if he is trying to avert the pain of love with violent tenderness. I hear a small, choked sound from deep inside him and I realise he is crying. I can't bear it. I take his face in my hands, hold it delicately as if holding a frightened bird, and start to kiss him.

---------------

I stand still with my face upturned, enthralled, the tears stinging my eyelids. I feel Harry's mouth on my forehead, eyelashes, cheeks, nose, chin… He's kissing the tears away and his kisses leave traces of light on my skin, like comets' tails. The combination of love and magic can sometimes create vibrant colours in a touch or a sound, leaving tingling, sparkling traces. Love _is_ magic, after all.

"You're talking about debts, Harry." It seems wrong to talk above a whisper. This moment is too frail. "There is no debt. You don't owe me anything, anything at all. I did it purely out of selfishness. I would have died without you, so I had to save you."

He starts kissing my half-open mouth, softly kissing the outline of my lips, kissing the words as I say "I love you". 

And when I've said it, I start kissing him back with a kind of sweet intensity that wells up from deep inside me. Tongue deep in his mouth, hands in his hair, I try to convey to him the terrible desolate longing of the past four weeks, all the misery turning into beauty this very moment. I want us to stay in this kiss, our lips hot and firm, our tongues still carrying the warm, rich taste of our recent declarations of love.

The old, reliable lust and desire between us is returning with all the fierce strength it has always had, ever since our first nervous kisses. Our bodies have always reacted to each other this way, hard and immediate. I feel the increasing urgency in his caresses and I respond with eagerness. He pulls me into the bedroom. The room is dim behind its dark blinds, and it smells of him, of ferns and greenery and a hint of pine resin. His mouth wanders down my throat, lips grazing my Adam's apple, teeth gently nipping at my collarbone. I run my hands up his back, feeling the ridges of muscle along his spine. He unbuttons my shirt and his own at the same time, tugs at them, pulls me to him to let skin meet skin in a soft, hot shock that makes us both gasp. Our clothes come off in liquid, practised movements, as we smooth the bared, shivering skin with hot palms. We have done this so many times before, and yet every single time it's a new adventure in a well-known land. I let my hands glide all over him, I read his tension, I want to feel his entire body at once. I let my fingers worship his skin, so wonderfully smooth and alive, three shades darker than mine, bronzed with summer sun, shaded with dark hair. We are twin columns of light and darkness, one unable to exist without the other. His mouth is on my shoulder, teeth sharp, almost enough to draw blood. His tongue follows, slowly licking at the imprint his teeth have left. I shudder, my mouth on his ear. I want him so much it hurts. He runs his palms down my chest and stomach, takes the last little step that closes the remaining distance between us. His eyes catch mine and hold them as he rubs himself slowly against me, reading my desire and answering it with their own slow, green fire. 

He pushes me down on the bed, none too gently. My skin feels tender and over-sensitive, burning with the friction of the sheets. Usually Harry is a tentative lover, not at all passive but not eager to lead. Tonight he wants to be in charge. I can sense his need to possess me, to dictate me, to make up for time lost. And I'm happy to surrender myself to him, to my own need for him.

We lose ourselves in each other. An earlobe between lips, a tongue on a stiffening nipple, fingers in hair, thighs along hips. The pine scent in the room is gradually mingling with the close, salty, unmistakable smell of arousal. He presses me down into the mattress, whispering my name into my skin as he moves down my body. But I'm not ready for him yet. I push his shoulders away from me and we roll around; he is writhing under me, damp with sweat now, and his fingers tighten in my hair as I lick his stomach. I know his skin knows how to read the Braille on my tongue, and his moans confirm it. We shift again and he is on his hands and knees over me, turning me over on my stomach, straddling me, biting the back of my neck, licking at my shoulder blades as if he wants to eat me. He is very intense tonight, slow and intense. Usually he is – well, not impatient, but very straightforward; he never teases, never lingers. Tonight he does. His fingertips slowly travel the length of my spine, his mouth burning at the small of my back. 

"Volite Linguae," he mumbles, and I feel a shockingly warm, wet, fluttering sensation all over my neck, my back, sides, buttocks, the back of my thighs, like hundreds of tongues simultaneously licking my skin. It's wonderful, it's thrilling and deeply erotic, but also on the edge of being unpleasant, and I writhe under it, gasping and shuddering. I hear Harry's soft laugh above me, excited and with a curious undertone of triumph. When the sensation has passed he bends down, hard silky heat touching the damp skin of my back, and his lips brush my ear as he breathes into it: "I've always wanted to fit all of you into my mouth at once. I suppose that was as close as I'll ever get." I almost whimper as I turn around to face him, pulling his head down to me, desperate to have his mouth on mine, to taste him. He lets me do it for a second, and then he starts moving down my body again. He goes slowly, kissing every inch of my skin, licking and lapping as if I'm glazed with some sweet substance he can't get enough of. I want to tell him how much I have missed him, tell him how much I have missed what we are doing now, but then I feel his satin mouth slowly moving down to take me all the way in. His tongue starts doing marvellous, incredible things to me and my coherence goes to the winds. I give myself up to a wave of pleasure so intense I almost faint. He moves agonizingly slowly, lingers, waits so long it's torture and I'm almost begging, and then he moves slowly again, his tongue playing a tantalising game. My moans fill the room with desperate need. I can't take this teasing; I'm pushing at him to make him move faster, but he holds me down so hard his fingertips will leave bruises, branding me with his desire. When he finally quickens the pace, the relief and the pleasure is so enormous I nearly scream. I move into his rhythm, move against his tongue, sinking into a soft rush of darkness. 

Suddenly he withdraws and I gasp in shock at the broken rhythm and the abrupt change from hot wetness to cold wetness. _No! Oh god, no, don't stop!_ But I'm so close to climax I can't articulate. I try to push him back down but I only fumble. I hardly recognise my own moans; they are almost cries now. This desperation can't be mine. 

"You're close now, aren't you?" he whispers, like he didn't know. Like he didn't know what he does to me. Like he didn't know the way I tense before I dissolve.

"Yes!"

It's hardly even a word. Where is my dignity? But dignity is irrelevant. I just need his mouth.

"Do you want me to go on…?"

His lips on my throat, the faintest touch of the tip of his tongue. I can't answer him, can't think, I'm lost in some blissful, painful place. Lips on my ear now, tongue plunging. I almost scream. He knows that my fingers in his hair is a yes.

He slides down my body and his mouth is hot around me again, as if we have reached a compromise, as if he gives me this as a gift in exchange for my surrender. The sweet silky heat, the pressure of his tongue in exactly the right place, _yes_, _like that, oh, yes_, and I push my fingers through his hair and my cry is his name without words.

--------------

"Best birthday present I've ever had," I murmur sleepily as we're lying relaxed and luxuriously close among sheets damp with sweat, his arm across my chest, his lips against my throat.

The taste of him in my mouth. I'm warm and heavy with the intense pleasure, with the knowledge that we have found our way back to where we are.

"I'm very good at finding just the right gift."

I laugh. His voice is a caress and I love the weight of him on my shoulder, the heat of him down my side. How could we ever have been fools enough to think we wanted to leave this. We need to be together. We have to be. 

Without each other, we are nothing, but together we can be anything and everything. We can be two planets moving side by side, orbiting the sun of our love.


	5. Here and Now

Disclaimer: No matter how much I wish I owned these characters, they still belong to J. K. Rowling. Damn.

Warning: This is male slash, so if you have objections to that, please disapparate.

Author's Note:   
Love, hugs and beauty to my betas – **VanityFair**, PickledToadFinder #1, who wouldn't let me hide in a dark cave, and **Darklites**, my fellow orb hater, whose only fault is she's much too nice to my fics. To **Ivy Blossom** and **Aidan Lynch** for being wonderful writers and netfriends. House points to Aidy for unofficial beta work! **Grace**, hope you'll like this.

Title: SIDE BY SIDE IN ORBIT

"…what if there were two,  
side by side in orbit…"  
R.E.M., "Nightswimming"

---------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER 5 – Here and Now

"Time has told me  
You're a rare rare find  
A troubled cure  
For a troubled mind  
…  
And time will tell you  
To stay by my side  
To keep on trying  
'til there's no more to hide"

Nick Drake, "Time Has Told Me"

Light tickles my face. I think that's what wakes me up. That and the sleepy arm thrown across my chest. The times in my life I've woken up screaming, or with my face stinging and itching with tears, are so numerous I've long since lost count. The times in my life I've woken up smiling can be counted on the fingers of one hand. All of these times I've been with Harry. And this is one of the mornings that found me smiling. 

I stretch cautiously, careful not to disturb that lazy arm, careful not to let the smile leave my lips. The past few weeks I've spent so much time being scared, not knowing whether each passing minute would take me closer to him or further away. But today everything is light and lightness. Today I could fly without a broom. 

Harry is still asleep, damp strands of black hair sticking to his forehead, his hand on my shoulder twitching as if he's trying to catch something. Waking up with someone is so intimate. Yet another thing I've only done with Harry. There have been other sexual encounters in my life, some recent, but this is where I've always drawn the line. Waking up together is for lovers alone; more intimate than having sex. There is no hiding then, no hiding anything. The cold light of day disperses the dreams and lies of the night before and reveals everything so mercilessly. 

And I don't want to know everything about most people. About Harry, I do. I want to know the things he doesn't even know himself. I want to tell him about them. I want to show them to him, hold them out to him and assure him they are nothing to be afraid of, nothing to be ashamed of. That I love him for them all. I've come to understand that the scared little boy he once was is still alive somewhere deep inside him; a mistreated, insecure little boy with wondrous, radiant eyes and an abyss in his heart.

I have to love you, Harry, because you don't love yourself. I have to do it for you. Something inside me breaks and bleeds when I see the doubt in your eyes, the way you can't quite believe anyone would love you for what you are, that anyone could want to embrace the shadows and the fears as well as every sunlit smile. The way you feel you have to be so good to deserve it.

I hate the way some see him as a demi-god. I hate the idolatry, hate to see their attempts at corrupting him, even if they're unaware of what they're doing. I don't believe he's incorruptible. Human beings aren't, as a rule. There is always a part of us that can be flattered, tempted, bought. But I've never seen Harry try to _use_ anyone, not once. I would have. I know I would. I love him for refusing to make capital out of people's need for hero-worship, and, at the other end of the scale, for refusing to be a martyr. He never tries to hide or explain away his fallibility, but he also never lets other people shoulder his responsibilities. Being who I am, I know better than most that showing weakness requires strength, that showing fear requires courage. And I love him for it, I admire him for it, more than I have ever told him. 

He is what matters in my life. Not the only thing, but he is what matters most. And I lie here watching him, the man who is just that; a man. I lie watching his closed eyes, eyelids delicate like the satiny inside of seashells, lashes the finest ink lines on his skin. I still can't quite believe it. That he should love me back. That he should love me.

He is immersed in silent sleep and I feel his warm breath against my neck and the side of my face. His hand clutches my shoulder – maybe he has caught what he was trying to catch. I just lie here loving the weight of his arm across my chest, loving the way he wants to hold me. And I don't even try to stop the tears from sliding out from under my eyelids, running sideways into my hair and ears. 

This Sunday morning could last forever, if we willed it to. Sunday mornings can. They are a state of mind.

* * *

Later, as Harry turns in his sleep, I get out of bed, put some clothes on and go out on to the balcony. The sunlight is golden and the air is filled with the smell of hot dust and the sounds of summer, of motorbikes and clattering heels and mewing seagulls, of shrieks from children playing and the distant splash of water from the fountain in the little square around the corner from our building. 

I position one of the recliners to face the sun and lie down on it, pulling my t-shirt off again. The warmth paints my skin with soft brush tips and I'm soothed, relaxed, happy, yes, completely happy now. The silly little smile is there again on my face. I won't stay in the sun too long; my skin doesn't take it very well. But the day is so glorious I have to lie here for a while before I go in to try to arrange some breakfast. I'm no cook like Harry is; I'll have to use magic. Without my wand, I can barely make toast.

A breeze moves across my bare skin like the feathery touch of a hand, lifting every little hair. I shiver and feel the first, faint stirrings of arousal. This is such luxury. Whenever I want, I can go into the bedroom and kiss Harry awake, kiss his mind and his body awake. But I choose not to, not yet. Instead, my mind wanders back to Hogwarts, to that winter years ago, when our relationship really started. 

We didn't push it. We just left it to find its own slow pace, afraid to spoil something if we hurried it. After that kiss in the snowy garden, that tear-streaked kiss that was both a beginning and an end, we went very slowly. Life could never go back to what it had been, before the war, but it gradually moved into a fragile kind of normality. At least, it tried. We tried. We resumed our interrupted studies, we played Quidditch and went to Hogsmeade, we tried not to think of the people we had lost and we never talked about the dark dreams that still tore us to pieces at night. Every morning we just patched ourselves back together, enough to go out and face the daylight world and not break.

For the first month after that kiss in the snow we barely touched. Somehow this heightened our perception, sharpened our electric awareness of each other. It didn't take much to send sparks flaring between us and through us. We exchanged looks, we smiled across rooms, we let our hands brush against each other when we met in the corridors. We had meals together, laughing into each other's eyes; we made jokes with swirling, secret undercurrents. Often we spent our evenings together, either in the Gryffindor Common Room or out walking by the lake. And as we walked along the soft, mossy paths that swallowed the sound of our steps, one of us would catch the other's hand to lace our fingers together or lightly stroke the palm, or one of us would stop the other with a hand on a shoulder, eyes meeting, both of us moving in irresistibly for soft, shuddering kisses.

A chilly, blue evening in March, we went for a walk as usual. It was a night like any other, but I knew something had changed. Harry had been seeking my eyes all day, and there was a challenge in his demeanour that I hadn't seen before. I recognised it with a stab of excitement. I had been waiting for it for so long, but now that it was finally there, it made me nervous. I was fairly sure that Harry was a virgin, and I didn't want to rush things. I wanted him, of course I did, in every way I could have him. But I wanted him to want it as much as I did. I wanted him to be ready for it. My own virginity was just one of the many things lost in the black whirl that had made up the year of war before the final battle. If you belong to the inner circle of Death Eaters, you don't stay a virgin in any respect for very long. I wasn't sure how I would function in a relationship like this one, where there was tenderness and honesty. My earlier experiences had been anything but sweet and sincere.

We stopped. I turned to look at him and saw in his eyes that he wanted more now, more than he had ever wanted, so I cupped my hands around his face and kissed him, a deep dark kiss that made us both tremble. Eyes closed, his tongue in my mouth, his fingers stroking the back of my neck, sending shivers of pleasure down my back, icy and hot together, the heat spreading to my stomach, whirling and sinking and transforming into hardness. My hands went under his robes, eased their way in under the horrid Weasley jumper and t-shirt, both of us gasping as they reached bare, tender skin that instantly goosefleshed at the touch. He leant his head back as my mouth moved down his throat, and his first, soft moan sent fire coursing through my veins. He belonged to me now and that moan was my seal of ownership. I ran my tongue along his collarbone and my hands up his back, the taut smoothness of his skin making my thoughts blur. He moaned again, one hand entangled in my hair, two fingers coming under my chin to lift up my face, and we kissed blindly, deeply, tasting each other's sweet-spiciness. When our mouths finally parted, we looked questioningly at each other. What now? How much more? How far?

It was the sharp chill in the air that made us head back to the castle. I still had the spacious room in the Gryffindor tower that I had been given during my convalescence. Harry had never been in there except briefly, on small, practical errands, to pick up a book or lend me his broom servicing kit. Now he drifted around the room, curious; touching things, lifting them up to weigh them in his hand. I wasn't sure whether he touched them as a substitute, too shy to touch _me_, or if he was trying to understand me through my personal belongings. At my bedside table he picked up my Mood Conveyor, a silly thing really – a small crystal ball reflecting the moods and emotions of its owner, but only revealing their true meaning to those who have the gift of reading it. And that gift involves love. I watched as Harry turned the Mood Conveyor over in his hand, watched the smoky, whirling light inside it slowly turn crimson and pulse in time with my heartbeat. I found myself growing impatient, and the Conveyor turned a dark purple. I wanted Harry to touch _me_ that way, claim _me_ for a personal belonging. I secured the door with a locking spell, went up to him and turned him around to face me, half-smiled at the look of nervous expectation on his face. His eyes didn't let go of me as his hand let the Mood Conveyor sink back onto my bedside table, the light inside it scarlet now. This was serious. This was for real. We both knew it.

This kiss was deeper, sweeter, more intense than the last. We were taking our time now. Whatever was going to happen had to be perfect. I didn't want to frighten him. Our robes came off and fell to the floor as I gently pushed him down on my bed, kissed him again, moved my hand up under the Weasley jumper, pulled it up, pulled the t-shirt up, let my palm glide over the taut muscles of his stomach. His eyes were shut tight and his breathing ragged, one hand in my hair and the other hovering uncertainly near my shoulder, as if waiting for a cue. I bent down and kissed the narrow strip of exposed skin between his navel and the waistband of his jeans, his skin a shock against my mouth, so silkily hot, fine hairs whispering against my lips. His shaky, breathy moan made my mind melt, melt with the knowledge that I could do this to him, could make him sound like this, could make him want this as much as I wanted it.

I must have given him the sign he was waiting for. He was opening my shirt now, pushing it off my shoulders, my naked skin shivering at his touch. We shed our remaining clothes, hands brushing, touching, teasing, enquiring, demanding. Thoughts dissolving now, breaking up into flashes, images, close details. The arched outline of his neck. A springy black curl at his temple. The little hollow at the crook of his arm where veins were threaded under thin skin and where I could feel his pulse beat, beat, beat against my lips. The tip of my tongue dipped into his navel, making him tense for a second; his moan caressing my ears as his fingers slid through my hair. My tongue followed the fine trail of hair downwards… a silvery stretch of skin over a curved hipbone… and my cheek brushed against hot velvet hardness, making both of us gasp. The smell of his skin. From fresh pine at the base of his throat, down his chest and stomach, down… green scent changing into the grey, blue, dusky, salty smell of sea. His helpless, ragged breathing above me. My mind a dark whirl streaked with heat, need, lust, greed; spiralling downwards, deeper, downwards, deeper down.

I don't know what's happening. I can't believe what's happening. That the sweet deep pulsing need is his as well as mine. That he wants this, needs this, craves this like I do. He pulls me up now, his mouth wants mine and his body wants mine, all of it, close, skin on shock-hot skin, hands gliding, acknowledging their purpose at last, finally reaching their goal. And then everything is dark urgency as we fight our own pleasure and each other's lust, never wanting this to stop, fighting desperation but losing, losing _oh god yes _giving in and opening into hot wet spurting shuddering release.

And then there was only the semi-darkness of the room, the sound of our breathing, the sea-smell that lingered in the air. 

We didn't say anything for a very long time. Harry gently touched my hand, lacing his fingers with mine. Words would only be an unnecessary ornament on something already perfected.

I knew that things, names, places could be tainted with memories. I had seen it happen. I would never be able to look at my own bed the same way again, but instead of being tainted, it would be sacred. The memory of what had just happened would wrap itself around me every night, like a dreamcoat.

I began to feel cold but I didn't want our nakedness covered with clothes, afraid this frail closeness would be lost if we dressed. I sat up and reached for my wand, cast a warming spell, whispered "Lumos". In the faint, slightly bluish light Harry's eyes were wide and radiant. He ran his fingers lightly down my arm, looking at me as if he didn't quite dare but couldn't turn his eyes away.

"Draco," he breathed. "Had you… I mean, were you…was this…"

He blushed and I knew what he was trying to ask, but I turned my face away. I wouldn't help him. I couldn't. I didn't want to hear myself admit it. He tried again, fingertips writing the question on the inside of my wrist, but he couldn't bring himself to say the words.

"Were you…?"

__

A virgin? Oh, Harry. Why do you ask when you don't want to know the answer. I didn't want to know it either. _No, I wasn't a virgin. _But wait. There was something very wrong with that answer. I started over._ Yes, I was. In a very real sense, I was. What happened back then – with **them** – doesn't count. This was my first time. With you, everything is reinvented. With you, everything is new._

It was the truth. No one had ever touched me like Harry did. No one had ever treated me as if I was something delicate and fragile that might break. And no one who had touched me had ever blushed at the boldness of their own hand, or anxiously watched my response as if it was the most important thing in the world that I wasn't hurt, that I should approve the touch. And I had found myself succumbing to the tentative hand, opening to it, responding almost before the question was asked. I had known before, but no one had cared to prove to me, that intimate touch could and should be sweet pleasure without pain; the pleasure in itself so intense it bordered on pain. And this lovely novelty alone had been enough for me to shut my eyes hard and very nearly come just at his first feathery touch. This had indeed been the first time for me. The very nature of this pleasure was virginal.

And that feeling of newness, of amazed and breathless gratitude, has never quite left me since. It's still there every time we touch. 

The sun is almost too hot now. If I stay out here I'll burn. I have just decided to go inside again when I suddenly feel Harry's presence. I know he's there. I know it the way I have always known. And I don't move; I lie still and relish the feeling of being devoured by his eyes, leaving him leisurely to watch for a while before I open my eyes to smile at him.

---------

My arms empty. Bed empty. Sheets cold as my hand wanders over them. I'm wide awake in a second and I shoot up in bed, head spinning with confusion and thick sleep. But I'm right. The bed _is_ empty next to me; a dent in the pillow the only sign of Draco having been here. Everything is quiet and still. Too still. No small, reassuring noises from somewhere else in the flat. My insides contract, fear blazing through my limbs. No. He can't have left. He just can't have.

My fingers touch the pillow. I can still smell him, us, on the sheets, as I swing my legs over the side of the bed, pull on some clothes. _He can't have left_, my brain keeps repeating numbly. _He can't have given me a birthday present like that just to take it back again._ When I come out into the living room the balcony door is open, curtains billowing softly in the breeze. I go over to the door and stop there, frozen in mid-movement, as relief floods through me and the fear that made the world cold and monochrome dissolves into light and colour.

Why do the happiest moments make you want to cry? I stand in the shady room, the doorway framing the picture of Draco, brilliant sunlight flowing and pouring over him and making the smooth, bare skin shimmer with its own light. Arms stretched lazily along the armrests, hands hanging gracefully relaxed, stomach and chest rising and falling lightly with his even breathing. His eyes are closed and his face touched with sadness. My eyes wander over him and I notice with a jolt that he's half aroused. I stand staring at him for a very long moment before he opens his eyes, squinting at the sun, and turns his face towards me. What has he been dreaming about? What is he thinking? There is a smile awakening now, beautiful as I have ever seen it.

He holds out a hand. "Come here."

"Sunbathing?"

"Mmmm. For a bit. Was going to go in soon." 

His voice is a sleepy mumble and I feel it in every nerve as I sink down on my knees beside the recliner and kiss him. His mouth opens under mine and his hand comes up into my hair. His skin smells of sun. I rest my hand lightly on his chest, a fingertip barely touching a nipple. I lean back and look into faintly amused grey eyes, but he pulls my head down to him again and my cheek is on his shoulder. The relief and gratitude is so strong it turns into anger, and my hand on his chest curls into a fist.

"Don't _ever_ leave again! Don't you fucking _dare_!"

His lips against my forehead, a butterfly touch to tell me he understands.

"I won't leave, silly." I hear his smile but I also hear it go away. "The only thing that could make me leave you is… if something happened to me."

I lift my head and stare into wide grey eyes. "What? What would happen? Don't be dramatic." Not following my own advice, I grip his shoulder so hard my hand aches. His skin goes white and red under my fingers but he doesn't make a sound or move his eyes away from my face. I smile through the thunder in my head. "Draco, I swear to you, if you die, I'll kill you."

He laughs then and the melodramatic moment is over. He reaches out to push his fingers through my hair, and the thunder fades as I look at the lovely face. It's difficult to kiss when you're laughing but I decide to try anyway.

"Merlin, Harry," he says against my mouth, "you look a mess."

I pull away and make a face at him. "Well, we can't all be perfect. I need a shower. Care to come?"

The broadening grin on his face tells me that he'd very much like to come.

* * *

We finally get around to having breakfast. The bed is a sea of creased sheets, breadcrumbs and sprawled limbs. Draco never really gets a tan, but his skin is faintly golden, and he tastes even better than the equally golden delicacies of hot buttered toast and thyme honey.

When our hunger has been stilled, for food, for each other, Draco leans back against the headboard and I snuggle down with my head in his lap. He looks down at my face with a tenderness that frightens me. A too-beautiful, too-valuable gift. I close my eyes and feel his fingertip trace my eyebrows, my lashes, the length of my nose, the outline of my lips, follow the line of jaw and chin.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm drawing your face."

"Oh. Will I look nice?"

"You will be gorgeous."

I laugh. His hand rests on my chest, and he takes a deep breath before he says:

"Harry. There's something I'd like to do today. And I'd like you to go with me."

Although the request is softly spoken, I can sense its urgency. I open my eyes and meet his, cool and grey, still as water.

"What is it?"

"I want to go to Malfoy Manor." The water ripples.

With Draco, strong emotion is usually written in nearly-invisible ink, but I've learnt to read the faint script. And I read both excitement and fear in him now. He hasn't been back to Malfoy Manor after the war. He has avoided it, leaving it in the hands of the Ministry people who cleaned it out. He has even avoided talking about it, except once; one long, memorable night when he told me about the pain and the love and the fierce, shining hate that he feels towards it.

"So will you come with me?"

__

I'd go anywhere with you. I just nod. And the water is still again.

* * *

The portkey is a feather. Not a magnificent eagle feather, as you might have expected, but a smallish, non-descript, downy grey one. There is the usual feeling of a hook behind your navel, jerking you forward; the usual dizziness of magical transportation. The howl of the wind dies around us and we hit the ground with a groan. The feather sinks slowly onto the grass beside us. We are standing in a sunlit clearing, surrounded by creeper-clad tree trunks. The wind whispers in summer leaves. Draco is a little paler than usual, and I don't know if it's nausea or emotion. He brushes wisps of dry grass from his trousers and looks up at me with a strange expression in his eyes.

"Welcome, Harry Potter," he says. "Welcome to this beautiful nightmare."

-----------

I know these woods so well. If we take a right, we'll come down to the lake and the boathouse. If we take a left, we'll reach the park and the Manor itself. I feel a strange mixture of reluctance and impatience, revulsion and excitement at being here again. Harry's presence changes nothing and everything. 

His elbow touches mine as he curiously looks around the clearing, and I only see the sun in his hair and the light in his eyes. There is something I want to do, here and now. Malfoy Manor has waited for years. It can wait an hour longer.

I reach out and pull him to me. I see surprised laughter in his eyes as I kiss him, and the kiss is hungry as if we hadn't made love twice today already. I want him so. God, I want him. I have always wanted him.

The soft grass is starred with small yellow flowers, powdering Harry's hair with pollen as we sink down among them.

Yes. Take off my shirt. Take off all my clothes and leave me naked as an infant, vulnerable and exposed, completely at your mercy. 

I need you, Harry. It hurts but I need you. It's painful to hand over so much power to someone, yet I know it's a core element of love. Having to trust the other with your life. Because you could so easily kill me, and I know you are aware of it. You know it but you choose not to exert your power, and that is a choice you make over and over again, every day, every hour. 

I've never really needed anyone before. As a child I needed my parents like any child needs someone for food and shelter. But for love and emotion – no. As long as your need is simply practical you're safe. Let it under your skin and you're done for. 

Harry's hands on my body, his tongue buried in the little crease where arm meets chest, my palm pressed against the small of his back. His eyes are shut, mouth slightly open, entire being concentrated on this sensation. Breathing ragged, muscles tense, lips parted for the uncensored, uncontrolled words that slip out in the moment of peaking pleasure. And when my own climax hits, a part of me is still sane and clear, thinking without articulating that it's never been this good, it can't be this good, will it ever be this good again?

And then the clearing is still and quiet again, filled with dappled light. With Harry, the smallest things have meaning. Every time we make love, I lose myself in him only to be found again. His hand touching my face tells me he has found me and will keep me, hold me, save me. We get up out of the grass to get dressed, and as we look down, a snowy white flower grows from the spot where we have been lying, opening an intricate globe of petals to the sun.

Harry and I have had a lot of first times. This is the first time we visit Malfoy Manor together. When the main building comes into full view, Harry stops, his hand still in mine. I look at him questioningly as he starts laughing.

"I always imagined Malfoy Manor to be straight out of a Muggle horror movie," he says. "Dark and brooding and menacing. But look at it. I didn't expect it to be… beautiful."

And I look. It's an old, familiar picture but my eyes are new. Yes, Harry is right, it is a beautiful building, lying there innocently in the sun, lines clean and proportions graceful, rows of windows like blind eyes, ivy softening its grey sternness. It doesn't look derelict even after years of disregard from its owner. The lawn is mown in the park and the trees have been pruned. I left it to a Ministry clerk to find someone to look after it, and it seems he's done his job well.

Harry's mouth is on my cheek, my ear. "I should have known," he mumbles. "Should have known the place where you grew up had to be beautiful." His endearing sentimentality. Malfoy Manor needs it.

"There aren't any protective spells any more," I say softly. "There used to be. The entire place was webbed with them. When my father was alive, we wouldn't have been able to come even this far without passwords and counter-spells and riddle-guessing."

It makes the Manor somehow exposed and forlorn, and, ridiculously, I feel sorry for it as it lies here immobile and quietly waiting in the green expanse of the park, listening to the brook laughing in the woods as it skips and bounds towards the lake. Waiting for life to find it again. Waiting for me.

Inside the house, the floors are swept clean and the echo of our steps bounces off the walls. There are only a few carpets left, their rich colours glowing. The signs and symbols of the past have been efficiently cleaned out, but the smell of it still lingers, a faint sour smell of fear and treason, power and subservience, of spilt and long since removed blood. From the gallery, stern haughty faces look down at us, and I follow the line of portraits with my eyes. When I see my father's strong, pale face and relentless eyes at the end of the line, a wave of cold nausea washes over me, and for a minute I think I will have to throw up. _Surely there is a separate hell for those who have killed their father. Illustrious company indeed. Oedipus. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Draco Malfoy._ Harry senses this and pulls me to him, and as he holds me the nausea subsides, leaving me shaking and clinging to him pathetically, desperate for his strength.

He is the only one who has ever held me. I can't remember my mother ever embracing me, hugging me to her for comfort or love or protection. She exhausted her embracing power when she held me inside her womb. Once I was outside her body, a separate entity, she didn't venture more than the briefest of physical contact. She touched me constantly, but it was always small butterfly touches – fingertips brushing my arm, lips pressed against my hair for a second, the back of her fingers against my cheek. She groomed me, pushing a strand of hair out of my eyes or brushing invisible lint from my clothes. But she never held me. As if she was afraid. As if it was important to keep a distance. It hasn't occurred to me before to wonder what she was afraid of, and now that I finally raise the question, she is no longer here to be asked.

I have to let go. One of the most difficult things in life is learning to let go, and I'm only a desperate beginner.

It's too late for so many things. But there are also things waiting around the corner that I cannot yet imagine. We make our choices based on our experience and on any wish we have for the future, but we don't know more than what this moment holds. 

My here and now is Harry. The only truth I know is his arms around me here at Malfoy Manor; his light and warmth shining among memories of pain, of lies and darkness.


End file.
